


Dreamer

by Yùu (Yuutfa)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Loneliness, One Shot, Sorta relationship but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuutfa/pseuds/Y%C3%B9u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In Sherlock’s dreams, there existed a man named John Watson.</i>
  <br/>
  <a href="http://tieba.baidu.com/p/1820982446">Now available in Chinese!</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Handful_of_Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handful_of_Silence/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Empyrean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/454936) by [Handful_of_Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handful_of_Silence/pseuds/Handful_of_Silence). 



> Inspired by the beautiful series 'In The Arms of Morpheus'. Here, have a dream-fic that has pretty much nothing to do with the ItAoM universe.
> 
> Thank you very much to Vivien Feng for the Chinese translation! I appreciate it more than you know. (The link to this is available in the summary.)

In Sherlock’s dreams, there existed a man named John Watson.

 

He was plain, unassuming, and was short of stature, though that wasn’t to say that he was any less of a man because of it. He was compact and stout, rather than small and weak. With eyes like sapphires and hair like desert sands, John was a contradictory blend of ordinary and fascinating.

 

In his dreams, they lived together in a small central London flat.

 

In the mornings, John would potter around the kitchen, make a cup of tea—a little milk, no sugar, and would grab the newspaper from the coffee table. He would sit down in silence and read the paper as he enjoyed the peace. Whilst this happened, Sherlock would be on the sofa, with his hands steepled together in deep thought or he would be by the window playing the violin. When the latter happened, the soft, dulcet tones of the Stradivarius would fill the living room and would wrap them in a gentle embrace. John would remain silent, closing his eyes to appreciate the music while Sherlock simply enjoyed the presence of another.

 

It was all so hideously domestic, but Sherlock found that he hadn’t minded.

 

When the boredom became too much and he fell into one of his black moods, John would stay by him, steadfast and patient. He would tell him that things were ‘a bit not good’ with a small frown. And though he tried hard to stay calm, occasionally, John would yell at him and would leave in a flurry of rage. During those times, the flat felt much too empty and cold.

 

John always returned in the end. Sherlock never told him how grateful he was.

 

In his dreams, Sherlock was a Consulting Detective, as he was in the waking world. However, in these blissful fantasies, John ran beside him. John was an ex-army doctor, a man with a healing touch, a man that had no qualms about harming for the greater good.

 

Many times, John had protected him when he was in danger, always putting Sherlock’s life before his. At first, it had been from a cabbie that was trying to poison him. Then it was from a Chinese acrobat and after that, Sherlock lost track. He had grown dependent on John; steady, unwavering John. The observation didn’t repulse him, as he thought it would, but instead, he welcomed it and felt strangely whole. It was confusing, as he had never considered himself empty in the first place.

 

And as they solved this night’s case, they stood together, breathless and delirious with post-case high. With their backs slumped against the wall of 221B’s living room, Sherlock offered a smile to his flatmate. John smiled back.

 

“That was brilliant,” John said.

 

This was a phrase that had been uttered countless times and yet, never failed to surprise him. In the waking world, he was seen as a pariah, a being to be feared or scorned and in turn, Sherlock saw them as a means of relieving his boredom.

 

In this world, in this fabricated lunacy of the subconscious mind, there was one who regarded him with genuine awe. John’s words were always honest, always pure and it was because of this, Sherlock was at a loss. Logically, he knew that this was a typical aspect of friendship. Friends laughed with one another, divulged in secrets and respected each other. This was normal, he told himself, friendship was something everyone had experienced.

 

Before John, Sherlock had never had a friend.

 

What was this warmth that unfurled in his chest?

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock blinked, once and then twice. Then with a quiet derisive snort and a roll of his eyes, he pushed himself away from the wall. “Of course it was brilliant,” he replied. This earned him a light smack on the arm.

 

“Arrogant sod.” The words were warm and kind.

 

“I have the right to be,” Sherlock replied. He was unable to stop the smile from reappearing on his face. However, when he saw John’s thoughtful gaze, the boyish grin fell and an unfamiliar sensation of concern began to fill him. “John?”

 

John’s mouth opened and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, Sherlock found himself following the movement. “Sherlock—”

 

And with a jolt, Sherlock shot upright in the sofa. His eyes were wide and his breath short as he took in his surroundings.

 

The living room was dark, blanketed in a soft darkness that was shattered by the light from the window. Gone were the gentle haze of warmth and the homely orange lights of his dream. Down below, he could hear the muffled sound of Mrs. Hudson’s radio. The crooner’s words were indecipherable through the floor but the melody was simple, a gentle lift and fall; a slow tempo, a song of mourning. The air was cold for the evening chill had bought a draught in through the open window, though he made no effort to get up and close it. It didn’t matter to him.

 

His eyes fell shut and with his shoulders slumped in defeat, he fell back onto the sofa. Desperately, he willed sleep to take him.

 

It didn’t work.  

 

Here in the waking world, he was alone.

 

 


End file.
